


Wicked Game

by Mechrophile



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, conman AU, playboy Lambert, recon man Geralt, tech guy Eskel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29952039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mechrophile/pseuds/Mechrophile
Summary: In the Morhen Family, Lambert plays the role of "bait"--he's the one who distracts their marks by dating them.  A real love-em-and-leave-em type, Lambert has no problem with this (other than when their marks aren't attractive).  But their latest mark, a handsome art dealer, promises to be quite a challenge.  Can Lambert keep his head on straight and his heart out of the mix, or will this be the one to end his career?
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	Wicked Game

**Author's Note:**

> Very loosely inspired by "Heartbreakers", a movie about a mother-daughter duo who date rich men in order to separate them from their money.

The late summer California heat was just starting to break as Lambert pulled into the parking lot and shut off his sleek candy-apple-red Audi R8 Spyder. It had been a gift from his last mark, a cougar who came from old money and seemed to have nothing better to do than spoil her boy toy, complain about the stock market, and bark orders to her staff. He shuddered at the memory of her. That’s all she was, however, now that Eskel had deposited a sizable amount of her fortune into the Morhen Family Off-Shore account.

He checked his teeth in the rearview mirror as the top automatically unfolded above him, making sure they were still a gleaming white, then winked at himself before stepping out and locking the car. Geralt had assured him that his new mark would be here today, at the Stags’ Leap Winery, for some fund-raising even to benefit some charity or another in the art world. Lambert hated the minutiae Geralt liked to provide in his recon reports. Geralt had even provided the winery’s offerings, as if Lambert wouldn’t be getting the list from the sommelier. It was tedious and annoying, and Lambert often simply skimmed for the details he wanted, which annoyed Geralt in turn, because Geralt insisted that the tiniest details mattered.

His mark, Aiden Castillo del Gato, worked in the museum world, but Lambert had been too distracted by how attractive the man was to read very much about him. It was rare that he found himself so attracted to a mark, which Vesemir said was for the best, but seeing pictures of Aiden had made Lambert far more enthusiastic for this particular job.

As he was ushered into the foyer of the castle-like Manor House, Lambert took his shades off and tucked them into the breast pocket of his maroon linen blazer. The sleeves were rolled up to just below his elbow, with the sleeves of his champagne-colored Egyptian cotton button-up rolled up over them to create a nice contrast and draw attention to his forearms. The shirt was tucked into his black chinos and the top two buttons were left undone, perfectly framing the blackened silver chain with the wolf’s head medallion hanging from it. The blazer was fully unbuttoned to show off the thin leather belt that matched his button-up. A pair of oxblood leather wingtip oxfords completed his look. He’d even pulled a couple of small strands of his hair forward to fall over his forehead, the rest slicked back as usual. With the three scars on the right side of his forehead—the longest of which cut through the end of his eyebrow and continued down almost to his jaw line—and the somewhat severe widows peak, he’d spun himself into a ruggedly handsome playboy type, something the wealthy socialites he preyed on often fell easily for.

A rather attractive redhead in a low-cut floral print sundress approached him, clearly intent on more than just a friendly introduction. He politely introduced himself as Max Gunderson, not wanting to give anyone here something to make a connection back to his family. Max was his art world persona, a man who owned a framing and mounting shop. Red giggled at the emphasis he put on the word “mounting” and, if he didn’t already have a mark picked out, he’s sure he would be going home with her. Luckily for Lambert, the woman’s attention was quickly caught by another arrival, a man she apparently knew very well.

Lambert makes his way to a table near the back, where a sommelier is talking to a couple about a white. While he waits his turn, he scans the room for his mark. Aiden is indeed in attendance. He’s chatting with some old crone who looks like she belongs in a nursing home, probably a very wealthy museum donor or something. The ivory-colored Italian-cut suit with the deep navy button-up he’s wearing complements his complexion, and the dark curls—though a bit wild—soften him up. Lambert can’t help but stare. The man’s a work of art himself.

His daydreaming is cut short by the sommelier clearing his throat. Lambert turns and flashes his most apologetic smile, then asks, “What have you got for reds?”

“Ah, should’ve known. We’ve got a few. Cabernet, Malbec, merlot, or petite Sirah?”

“Let’s try the Cab,” Lambert answers, as if he really knows the difference. His knowledge of wines amounts to knowing that he likes reds, tolerates roses, and thinks whites are far too sweet.

The sommelier pours a small taste from a dark bottle into a glass and hands it over. “This is The Leap, a twenty-seventeen vintage cabernet sauvignon from our estate. It’s aged in French oak barrels and hand-selected by Mister Paubert himself,” the man explains as Lambert swirls, sniffs, and sips. He can pick out a nice berry note. Definitely one of the best cabernets he’s ever tasted.

“I’ll take a glass,” he says, once he’s drained the taste. It’s a rich red, and as much as he hates to ruin that ivory suit his mark is wearing, it’ll make a perfect stain. Probably not his best plan for introducing himself, but these parties are always so boring. Besides, staining Aiden’s suit will give him an excuse to get the man alone, under the guise of helping him clean it. And _that_ is where Lambert will shine, alone with his mark in the bathroom, pressed close as he dabs club soda onto the man’s lapel. “You know what? Gimme three—no, make it four bottles. I’ll pick ‘em up on my way out.” The sommelier nods and picks up a small tablet with a credit card reader attached, types in the request, and Lambert hands over a platinum card as if he’s simply exchanging a five-dollar bill for an ice cream cone. Once the purchase is complete, he thanks the sommelier and takes his glass to go search for his mark.

He does sip some of it, to his credit. Mr. Castillo del Gato has disappeared from the room. No matter, it’ll give Lambert time to plan out exactly how he can execute his plan. Those dance lessons Vesemir had forced him into come in handy in times like these.

A rich laugh comes from just outside the door to the terrace, pulling Lambert’s attention to find that his mark is the source. Casually, he makes his way to the door, before someone else can sweep in and distract him. That smile is radiant, and he can’t help but to think what it’ll feel like when it’s aimed at himself. Gods, when did he become a sap? That’s not the goal. The goal is for him to distract this golden-skinned god so his brother can siphon off his money, then they move on to their next target. Of course, that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy himself. Which he intends to do thoroughly.

Just as Lambert is about to take his fateful step, Aiden turns slightly, so that they’re nearly face to face, and Lambert’s staged fall becomes an _actual_ fall, one that sends him flailing forward. His glass goes flying, red liquid landing to the right of his mark’s fly. A pair of strong hands catches him, saving him from the taste of sun-warmed stones, and he’s pulled upright to a look of mild concern aimed directly at him.

“Careful, my friend. This patio would be unforgiving to that handsome face.” Aiden holds onto his shoulders for a bit longer than strictly necessary, and heat creeps up Lambert’s neck.

“Shit, sorry…Guess I should’ve watched my step,” Lambert offers. A very practiced look of embarrassment overtakes his face, his eyes going down to the big red splotch on Aiden’s trousers. “Oh, fuck, I’m really sorry! I…know a way to get that out, though.”

Aiden chuckles softly, rich and warm, and shakes his head. “Don’t worry. I should’ve known better than to wear a white suit to a winery.”

“Please, it’s the least I can do.” Lambert moves to guide Aiden back inside, and the man goes easily. “I’ll meet you in the bathroom.” Aiden nods and begins to head towards the bathroom, and Lambert goes to ask for some club soda and white vinegar. Thank you, Madame Barclay, for those helpful laundry tips. The sommelier grabs the requested items quickly, and Lambert makes it to the bathroom just as Aiden is setting aside his belt and unbuttoning his fly. Lambert locks the door, then raises an eyebrow. “I spill wine on you, and you strip for me?”

Aiden smirks. “I thought it might be easier to get the stain out without you rubbing against my thigh. I’m also not in the habit of allowing strangers to touch me so intimately.” Sound logic, which Lambert answers with a nod. “Would you mind, ah, turning around? I didn’t think it would matter if I didn’t wear underwear to this event.”

_Oh_.

“Yeah? Probably not a smart choice, given your decision to wear white~” Lambert teases as he turns to face the sink. Yes, he would like a peek at the hardware, but he can be patient. 

“I generally never wear it,” Aiden replies as he nudges Lambert’s shoulder to hand over his trousers. “I’m Aiden, by the way. Aiden Castillo del Gato.”

“Lambert M—uh…Lambert MacDonald.” _Smooth, Lamb. Smooth. Almost blowing your cover in record time, all because you’re a little flustered over a pretty face_ , he thinks to himself. He gets right to work on the stain, slipping his left hand inside the trousers so as not to risk the stain bleeding into the back of the leg when he douses it.

“MacDonald…What is that, Irish?” Aiden asks.

“Scottish, actually. Though I was born and raised right here in Cali.” A lie. After being adopted by Vesemir, Lambert had been moved around frequently, along with his new brothers.

“Lucky. I would love to have grown up in one place. My family moved frequently for my father’s work. I was always the new kid.”

Lambert huffs a laugh. “Hey, knowing you’ll see your elementary school bullies later on in junior high and high school makes growing up feel tough, all right? At least when you’re attending different schools, you can reinvent yourself as much as you please.”

There’s a warmth at his back, and heat creeps up to the top of Lambert’s ears. “This is true. And through so much reinvention, I discovered who I wanted to be. Now I am that man, and it’s given me many _interesting_ opportunities.” The stain is coming out nicely, but Lambert is quickly realizing he’s going to have an altogether different problem on his hands once he finishes. “I’m very fortunate such a clever man as yourself was the one to stain my trousers, for instance. Tell me, Lambert, do you think we would’ve given each other the time of day were it not for your little mishap?”

As Aiden speaks, his breath ghosts across Lambert’s ear, and he swallows thickly. Since when did he become so easy? It’s gotta be that barely-there hint of a Spanish accent. Or is it Mexican? He does have a bit of a thing for accents. Not to mention the proximity of his mark’s very naked cock.

“I dunno, you’re pretty damned hot, and when I spotted you across the room while I was waiting to speak to the sommelier, I did promise myself I’d speak to you.” It’s a miracle he keeps his voice steady. Aiden’s hand has settled on his shoulder, and it takes great effort for him to keep his focus on getting the stain out. He very much wants to grind his ass back “accidentally” and at least get a feel for what he’ll be working with later.

It’s unfair.

“Well, then I'm doubly lucky. What do you do, Lambert MacDonald? What brings you out to this event? Are you in the art world?”

Lambert clears his throat and shrugs. “I do custom frame work. One of my clients invited me, said it’d be a great place to network.” It’s not entirely a lie. Lambert _does_ actually do some custom framing work on the side, but it’s mostly just a way for him and his brothers to launder money. Nothing that’s really traceable, of course. A word-of-mouth business, whose owner doesn’t exist.

The stain comes out rather quickly. It’s a blessing, because Lambert _cannot_ take much more of this temptation. As soon as he’s finished, he rinses the wet patch with water, then squeezes as much out as he can with a few napkins. When that’s done, he hands the trousers back to Aiden.

“Ah, you did wonderful work!” Aiden’s hand leaves his shoulder, and immediately, Lambert misses it. “You’ve saved me a rather hefty dry-cleaning bill.” Lambert hears the soft shift of fabric, the way the zipper’s teeth quickly come together, and then Aiden is reaching for his belt. Finally, Lambert turns around to face him.

“Just a bit of club soda and white vinegar. Nothing to it, really,” he answers, giving Aiden his most rakish smile.

“No, no, don’t play this down. Do you know how many items I’ve lost to red wine stains? Before I could afford my current dry cleaner, of course.” Aiden laughs again, and there’s something in his eyes as he watches Lambert, and Lambert feels his mouth go a bit dry. “I’m afraid my job today requires I not linger on any one guest, but…I’d like to get to know you a little better, Lambert. What do you say to dinner next Friday?”

Lambert nods absently, watching his mark pull out a cell phone. “Dinner Friday sounds great.” The phone is offered to him, a new contact page open and waiting for his information. Lambert puts in the same number he’d given when he signed up for the event, which is the same number he uses for his framing business. He’s going to have to change the voicemail message, because it currently gives his name as Max Gunderson, and if Aiden calls and Lambert can’t answer, this will blow up in his face. He’ll just…slip out to his car and fix that, then return to schmooze and network.

Once he’s finished, he hands the phone back to Aiden. “Excellent. I’ll text you later this evening, I promise.” He claps Lambert on the shoulder, giving a firm squeeze.

“Yeah, if you don’t forget,” Lambert jokes. His self-loathing just can’t resist rearing its ugly head, suddenly. Way to make an impression.

“Oh no, _guapo_. I can assure you, that won’t be the case.” Aiden steps close, right into Lambert’s space, so that they’re nearly sharing breath. He’s shorter than Lambert, but not enough to prevent him from easily crowding Lambert back against the sink. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’ve no need for a custom framer. This will strictly be for pleasure. If you’re amenable, that is.”

“Oh…Yeah, I’m amenable.” Again, Lambert swallows thickly, and briefly contemplates what the repercussions would be were he to close the gap between their lips. He misses the moment, of course, as Aiden steps away with a wink.

“Then I look forward to Friday,” Aiden says. Then he’s out the door, leaving Lambert alone in the small bathroom with a bit of a slow-dance chub making his pants feel slightly uncomfortable.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated~   
> ✧w✧


End file.
